A Different Game
by J. D. Dunsany
Summary: Six off-duty Imperial Guardsmen, a bottle of amasec and a game of cards. And secrets and shame and naivety and horror and the slow, subtle erosion of belief that comes from having seen far too much.


**A Different Game  
**  
The tent flap rustled gently and a shadow fell across the men.

"I heard a shot. What's…"

The words died in Commissar Landry's throat. He moved forward a step and the full extent of the scene was revealed.

Five men sat round a low, roughly circular table. A small, distant part of his mind registered that it appeared to have been fashioned from a wing panel of a transport truck. Teetering on the extreme edge of the battered metal was a bottle of amasec, almost one-quarter full. An old-fashioned stub pistol, one of those with the revolving chambers, lay almost in the centre of the table. Landry acknowledged these details absently. The infringements to regimental by-laws they represented would be addressed later, but there was a much more serious issue that had to be dealt with first.

Landry took another step forward, consciously moving fully into the dim light cast by the chemical lamp hanging from the tent's central stanchion. He gave the five men time to absorb the implications of the peaked cap, the black leather greatcoat and the laspistol holstered at his hip. His gaze swept across the guardsmen. For the most part, their faces were unreadable, although one, he noted, had eyes that brimmed with unshed tears.

Finally, he looked at the sixth man in the room. The dead man. The man sprawled awkwardly on his metal-frame chair. The man whose bloodied brain matter glistened blackly like clumps of wet earth on the supply crates at the rear of the tent.

"Stand up," Landry said, quietly. "Now."

The men shuffled silently, awkwardly, to their feet. Dead eyes stared at him from impassive faces. These were, after all, hardened men, veteran soldiers who had fought on over a dozen worlds and had almost eight decades of combat experience between them. They were all emotionless killers.

All except, it would seem, one.

Landry watched the passage of the tears down Merrick's craggy, time-worn face for a moment, noted the gentle shaking of his shoulders.

"Tell me," he said, his voice whispering like silk on tempered steel. "Tell me what happened."

* * *

"Fold."

Carson threw down his cards in disgust and stared moodily at the supply crates piled haphazardly around the tent's interior. He could just make out the shape of the Imperial aquila stamped on their plasteel sides. They contained folding shovels, he seemed to remember. Well, you can't have too many shovels in the Guard now, can you? The grey uniform crates weren't the most inspiring things to look at, true, but they had to be better than looking at Dorland's smug face.

"What's up, Carson? Lady Luck not smiling on you tonight?"

"Shut up," muttered Carson, shifting awkwardly in his seat. He was a big man and it was difficult to get comfortable on the poxy folding chairs Merrick had scrounged from Central Ops.

"Awww…" Dorland's voice dripped with mock sympathy. "Poor old Carson's not feeling too perky tonight, peeps. How many gelt you down now, Carson? Fifty-six, isn't it? Very nice."

Dorland was smiling again. Emperor, the idiot didn't know when to let up. Carson sat forward in his seat, his jaw clenching tightly.

"I said shut up."

"Ladies!" Dennison's pronounced drawl washed over them. The dark little man managed to sound both offended and menacing at the same time. "We have a game here. Now, _Guardsman_Dorland, play nice. The night is young. Plenty of time for fisticuffs later." Dennison turned to Carson and winked. This shouldn't have worked, but somehow it did. There was just something about Dennison that you couldn't help but like. Take that quip about Dorland's rank, for example – a pointed reminder that the smug fool was only here because of the others. Sure, Dorland had been a corporal once, but he wasn't now. Not since Jaskar. It was only through Dennison's and Merrick's friendship that the guardsman was invited to these regular gatherings. It did him no harm to be reminded of that occasionally.

Carson found himself relaxing and settling back into the chair. The game was almost over anyway. Merrick, Gost and Futcher were already out. Dennison was down, too, and with the King of Spires and the Six of Cogs showing on the table already, Carson thought he knew which way this round was going to go.

Dennison grinned easily. "Maybe I'm too curious for my own good, Dorland, my friend, but I'm going to have to see what's in your hand." He spread his cards out slowly, theatrically. Carson and the others leaned forward.

Six of Spires, Eight of Angels, Queen of Cogs, Two of Angels. Six of Swords! With the Six of Cogs already on the table, Dennison had three of a kind. A middling three of a kind, true, but not bad at all. Earlier rounds had been won with less. On a couple of occasions, _much_less. Carson tried to remember the cards that had already been played this round. He narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. He hadn't seen a ten or an ascendant, had he? He looked across at Dorland's cards; the backs of them gleamed gently in the soft light. And then he caught Dorland's eye and, with a horrible sinking feeling, he knew.

Dorland's thin, dirty face was split in a wolfish grin. He wasn't even hiding it. Damn it. Damn it!

Dorland spread his cards. The grin, if anything, got bigger.

Queen of Spires, Ten of Cogs, Ten of Spires, Nine of Spires and, the real killer, the Emperor Ascendant. With the Emperor wild and the King of Spires already out, Dorland had a straight flush. He hadn't just beaten Dennison; he had spat in his eye and rubbed his face in the dirt for good measure.

A collective groan went up round the table, Dennison throwing his head back and rolling his eyes as if he'd just taken a hit to the chest. Carson watched Dorland slide the motley collection of tarnished coins and crumpled scrip from the centre of the table into his lap.

"Thank you, gentlemen. That was lovely. Another round?"

Before anyone else could reply, Merrick kicked his chair away from the table and reached for the backpack behind him.

"Before we do, I think now might be a good time to open… this." He produced a large glass bottle and placed it on the table. Its contents were a rich, amber colour; small flecks of gold seemed to drift lazily within it, catching sullen fire in the dim light.

"Now you're talking." That was Gost, the newest recruit to their little fraternity. Just barely out of his teens, he had been promoted to sergeant through expediency on the regiment's last tour of duty. But then, on-the-spot field promotions were not uncommon in the Imperial Guard – especially when you were fighting the 'Nids. Gost, Carson reflected, was a good fighter. There was no doubt about that. But, sometimes he seemed a little too eager to prove his worth. More than once over the last few months he'd seen with his own eyes the younger man's recklessness in battle. Well, he supposed he'd grow out of it. Maybe.

The sound of a cork being prised from a bottle brought Carson's attention back to the table. Directly across from him, Futcher was licking his lips in anticipation.

"That's good stuff, Merrick. Where the hell did you get it from?"

Merrick produced a sextet of shot glasses from the backpack, too. A couple of them were a bit chipped, but they were nice all the same. Cut crystal. Heavy. He smiled and started pouring. Everyone – apart from Dorland, who was too busy counting his winnings – watched the golden liquid splash from the bottle neck. Gost let out a long sigh.

"Nice."

Smiling proudly, Merrick began to hand the drinks around. "Remember that hab block a couple of days ago? The posh one with all those gargoyles on the walls? Found this in there. Big cellar. Me and a couple of the lads managed a recce before the officers got in there. Got a few bottles. Had to let the lads have some, but I got this and two others. This ain't your usual pig's piss. This is proper stuff. Stuff the aristos wouldn't normally share with the likes of us." He grinned and raised his glass. "Here's to life in the Guard, eh?"

For a brief instant, his mind twitched with the memory of that hab, all ornate décor and gold leaf everywhere. Bloody toffs. He tried not to think of what he had seen in the bedrooms, but it was difficult. There had been a different kind of décor there. Hurriedly, he swallowed his first sip of the amasec and the fiery liquid roared down his throat, taking the ugly memories with it.

"Damn," he said. "That's good."

There was a general muttering of agreement from the other guardsmen. Gost drained his glass in one long draught and slammed it down on the table.

"Wooo-hoooooh!"

"Emperor on His frakking Throne, Gost!" snapped Merrick. "Have some damned respect for the hooch or you won't be getting another drop."

Gost coloured and sat back, looking away.

Dennison leaned forward, mild reproach lurking in his smile. "A bit hard there, my friend," he said, mildly. Futcher and Carson were looking at Merrick curiously; Dorland was still counting his money.

The amasec was good, but, somehow, for all its silk-on-fire smoothness, it now left a bitter aftertaste in Merrick's mouth.

"Oh, for frakk's sake!" He put the glass down on the table. Hard. It teetered for a moment and then tipped over, the amber liquid pooling around it on the scratched, metal surface. But, Merrick didn't notice. He was already out of the tent and striding away into the night.

"What the hell's got into him?" asked Carson.

"Beats me." Futcher shrugged, reaching for the bottle again.

"Dennison?" Carson turned to the small, dark man. "What's got into him?"

But, the veteran sergeant with the quick, dark eyes was counting under his breath. Quietly, he set his glass down on the table and stood up.

"I'll be back soon, gentlemen," he said, amiably. "Keep my seat warm for me, eh?"

Carson, Gost and Futcher watched him leave, his silhouette quickly melting into the shadows.

Dorland was still counting his money.

* * *

Merrick stopped walking after a while and sniffed the air, reflectively. The camp was quiet. Sentries patrolled with slow, patient steps; lights flickered and flared behind canvas tents and the slow murmur of conversation washed over him like the ebb and flow of some vast ocean tide. Ash and dust drifted lazily on a breeze that did nothing to cool the heat in his veins. The night was close and heavy, the stars mostly obscured by the towering pall of smoke drifting over from the eastern sectors. It had been a hard day's fighting in the east; Merrick had heard that casualties in some units had reached almost 40%.

Here in the west, though, the combat had been more sporadic, cultist snipers for the most part or suicide ambush squads waiting like feral dogs in the rubble heaps. High Command having designated re-taking the western habs only a tertiary objective from the outset of the campaign, it had summarily ordered them flattened once it met resistance from the Cult of the Sable Sun. There were precious few buildings now that stood higher than a couple of storeys. It meant that there was a largely uninterrupted view to the city core with its ziggurats and spires, all crawling with men gone mad, infesting the buildings like warp-tainted insects. Even from this distance, Merrick could make out the ritual fires that spotted the Administratum towers like bright sores on the skin of a wounded behemoth. It was the city core that was to be their next objective. Not tomorrow. Tomorrow was a day for resupply and regrouping. But, the day after, most likely – that was when the final push for the city would begin.

Merrick frowned. He felt… old. And, in Guard terms, he was. Forty-one was an age few Guardsmen reached - those that weren't high-ranking officers anyway. He'd seen action in a dozen campaigns and he was feeling that experience in every aching joint and every scar on his body.

"I can't go on like this," he muttered.

Footsteps crunched behind him.

"Well," drawled Dennison's voice, as the smaller man casually walked up to him, "you ain't lost none of your speed, old-timer."

Merrick grunted in reply. Dennison moved to stand next to him, close enough that the older man could smell the fragranced oil he used in his hair.

"Quiet night," observed Dennison.

"Too quiet."

Dennison arched an eyebrow. "Expecting an attack?"

"That's not what I meant." Merrick shifted slightly, not quite looking Dennison in the eye. "Last two cities we liberated there were survivors. Remember that whorehouse in Rosenstrasse? Or that place in Margenstadt?" He spat onto the rubble-strewn ground. "Nothing like that here. All gone."

Looking around him theatrically, Dennison smirked. "Well, the Basilisks do tend to make their mark on a place."

Merrick shook his head. "No survivors, Dennison. There were never any survivors. They were all… Throne, I hate cultists." Quietly, so softly that Dennison almost didn't catch it, he added, "I hate this."

Frowning, the younger man placed a tentative hand on Merrick's arm. "We're doing the Emperor's work, my friend. It's never clean. You know that."

"The Emperor's work." Snorting derision, the veteran rounded on Dennison. "Is that what you think?" Another contemptuous sniff. "I don't know; sometimes it just feels like we're…" His voice trailed off, uncertainly.

"Like we're what?"

Merrick shrugged. "The amasec. The amasec came from a hab block on the south side. Still intact for the most part."

"I know the one. Our platoon was on the second street over, remember?" Dennison grimaced. "Taking out a mortar emplacement."

"We went to the cellars after clearing out the living quarters on the upper floors. The men started taking the bottles. Wine, amasec. You name it. It was like…" Merrick paused and in the dim light his face was twisting, changing into something strange. Something desperate. "I didn't want to, Dennison. I didn't want to take the frakking amasec. Do you understand?" He stared at the dark little man; there was a wildness growing in his eyes. "Because I'd seen… I'd seen what they'd done…" Merrick blinked once, twice, and snapped his gaze away from his comrade and out over the night-shrouded city. "I've seen tons of stuff," he said quietly. "I've seen a little girl's head roll away from its body. Just rolling… I've seen men screaming for their mothers while their flesh burns like an Ascension Day bonfire. I've seen…" He licked his lips, slowly. He was still looking out at the ruins and Dennison couldn't see his face. "They were dead. No, not just dead." He turned back suddenly and Dennison was shocked by the stricken expression, the wide, haunted eyes. "Defiled. Bodies… posed on the bed. Skin on coat hangers in the closet. Eyeballs resting on the bedside table like reading glasses." Merrick's voice was dying, becoming emotionless, slack. "And everywhere the stink. Things that should never see the light of day rotting slowly in plain sight. Tell me, Dennison. Tell me the Emperor cares about that." He looked away, but not before Dennison saw the bitter curl of his mouth. "And I'll tell you that you're a liar."

* * *

Gost fidgeted in his chair, picked up the empty glass, set it back down again.

"This stinks," he declared, finally. "Where the hell have they got to?"

Stowing his cash in his fatigues pocket, Dorland reached for his hitherto untouched glass and brought it to his lips. "They'll be back," he said and sipped slowly.

Futcher and Carson looked at one another, but said nothing. It wasn't just Merrick who was on edge; something was happening to them. Something that none of them really understood.

Perhaps, thought Carson, it was simply age, experience. Perhaps it was the slow wearing down of the soul by month after month, year after year, of the same old cycle: from waiting to combat; from combat to recovery; from recovery to waiting again. The Imperial Guard was renowned for throwing its troops into the furnace of battle, heedless of the cost. To the average guardsman – one who had survived at least his first couple of combat missions, at any rate – war in the 41st millennium was the 'meat grinder'. Numbers and willpower affected the outcome of the fighting far more often than strategy and tactics. Was it any wonder that Carson felt just a little more numb with every battle?

He reached for the glass again, but stopped, letting his hand fall back into his lap. The amasec sat in the glass, bright amber sparks winking in its depths, seductive, dangerous. He shook his head.

"They're taking their time." Rubbing his palms against his thighs, he glanced across at Futcher.

Behind Futcher, the outlines of the grey, featureless packing crates seemed to merge with the shadows. In the murky light, it was becoming difficult to differentiate between what was solid and what was not. Futcher nodded slowly. "Yeah."

To Carson's left, Gost was still fidgeting, shifting his weight from one buttock to another in an arrhythmic swaying motion.

"Hey!" Gost said, his eyes shining with a combination of the amasec and whatever exciting information he was about to reveal. "Hey, did you…"

"I hear we'll be moving on Central the day after tomorrow," said Dorland. He moved his glass in a slow, circular motion, keeping the amasec swirling silently, almost but not quite bringing it to the lip of the glass, almost but not quite spilling it. "Then we'll see some fun."

Futcher nodded. "Yeah. That's what I heard."

Carson watched Gost's face fall briefly and then flare again with an excited determination.

"Hey!" said Gost. "Did you hear about the action this morning?" He hunched forward, his hands stretched out in front of him, elbows resting on his knees. "We lost two men taking a suicide cache out on the edge of the Remirez Park district. We were pinned down in open ground, man, and I sent Anders, Flinn and Broschen on a flanking run and…"

Futcher stared at his glass while Gost told the story. Carson was watching Dorland watch Gost. The former corporal's eyes were hard, his mouth a thin, compressed line. He'd seen that look before on Jaskar – just before the thing that had happened. The thing that bound him to Dorland just as surely as a long invisible piece of rope.

"… like a freaking melon, man. Just…" Gost made a farting sound with his mouth and his hands expanded to show exactly how Guardsman Anders' head had exploded when hit by a high charge heretic las round.

"Shut up," said Dorland, flatly.

Carson licked his lips and watched Gost blink.

"I was just…"

"Shut the frakk up." Dorland sniffed and brought the amasec to his mouth, taking another long sip.

"They're taking their time," said Carson softly, watching Gost pick up his empty glass with a trembling hand and bring it to his mouth.

"Yeah," said Futcher. "Throne, yeah."

* * *

With a calm, unhurried movement of his head, Dennison checked around them. They appeared to be alone and maybe they were, but it didn't hurt to be careful. From where he stood, he could see the lights of the regiment's vehicle pool, make out the darkened silhouette of a Sentinel hoisted up on heavy chains. There was a hint of movement below it – techs and enginseers working the late shift, no doubt. On the other side of the encampment were row upon row of tents all laid out in a pre-prepared grid, an occasional Guardsman on desultory patrol walking slowly down the canvas-flanked avenues.

"Come on, old-timer," he said finally, the humour in his voice sounding strained underneath the opaque night sky. "You're just spooked is all. It happens. Happens to the best of us."

"I didn't want to join the Guard," said Merrick, quietly. "Not really. I flunked out of the scholum when I was fourteen. Just… My parents said I was running with the wrong crowd. They were probably right."

In the distance, the cult fires on the ruined ziggurats seemed brighter now, the infection they represented taking a stronger hold in the fervid night. A flurry of ash flakes fell from the bruise-black sky like grey snow.

Dennison looked up speculatively. "Wind's changing. You got your rebreather?"

Merrick watched the ash and grit swirl and dance around them. Individual particles, one or two as large as an Imperial gelt piece, collided with his arms and chest, leaving tiny dirty streaks on his uniform.

"No," he said.

"Better get back then, old-timer." Dennison put his hand on Merrick's shoulder and led him back to the tent. The pair of them moved quickly through the thickening falls of ash, the sound of their footsteps muffled by the delicate, transient residue of the day's fighting in the eastern sectors – buildings, vehicles, equipment, flesh.

* * *

"'Nother game?" suggested Futcher, hopefully.

The chemical lamp was dimming slowly by infinitesimal increments, the pool of light it cast closing in, contracting. Over their shoulders, the shadows hung, an insubstantial veil. It would be easy to imagine that the tent was unravelling silently around them, that the circle of light was an ice floe dissolving quietly in a motionless sea.

Carson reached for his glass again. Again, he stopped. An idea had occurred to him. He instantly tried to dismiss it, but it had lodged in his mind, squirming into its recesses, hiding from his conscious thought, becoming an impulse, an instinct. A desire. He glanced across at his pack, sat on a crate on the very edge of the circle of light. In a few moments, it too might be swallowed by the murky half-light.

"No," said Dorland. "Let's wait."

Carson got up and retrieved his pack. He looked into the shadows for a moment, saw the outline of crates, the thin flap of the tent. He heard the quiet night sounds of the camp, the husky chirpings of insects, the intermittent rumbling of distant engines. There was no separation, no cutting off from the outside world – just shadow and light, seen and unseen, things in the open and things in the dark.

Unhurriedly, he returned to his seat and started opening the pack.

"This is crazy," muttered Gost. Dorland glanced at him coldly, but the younger man was worrying at the edge of the makeshift table, scratching the chipped paintwork with a broken fingernail.

Carson set the pack on the ground, bending over to rummage inside it. Futcher watched him but did not comment. His eyes had taken on a glazed quality. He scratched his cheek gently.

Around them, unnoticed, the light shrank a very little.

The tent flap rustled and shadows slid over the seated men. Gost looked up, relieved.

"About time!"

Merrick and Dennison entered, the former wordlessly taking his seat, the latter clapping his hands together and grinning at the other soldiers, before reaching for his largely untouched glass of amasec with one hand and the deck of playing cards with the other.

"Miss us?"

"Yeah," snorted Dorland, the glass in his hand now still. "Like a hole…"

Dennison sipped and held up the cards. His quick, bright eyes gleamed in the soft light. For a moment, they were the brightest things in the tent.

"So, are we playing another game or what?"

Across the table from him, Carson straightened up. There was something in his hand.

Slowly, as if it was made of concrete, Merrick turned his head towards the movement. He looked at Carson. He looked at the thing he was holding in his hand. With a measured heavy sigh, he breathed out every memory of the last twenty-five years of his life in the Guard.

"Let's play," said Carson, "a different game."

With great care, he placed the object he had been holding onto the table next to the amasec bottle. The scrape of metal on metal rasped the night air.

Dennison's glittering eyes became hard and dull. Gost leaned forward eagerly. Futcher grunted. Dorland brought his glass to his mouth impassively.

After a split second's delay, Merrick reached over and picked up the object with a slow deliberate motion. He weighed it in his hand gently, some small part of him marvelling at its solidity. With a single flick of his finger, he spun the gun's cylinder speculatively. There would, he knew, already be a bullet in one of the chambers.

He glanced across at Carson, then at Dennison, and finally at Dorland. He stared at Dorland for a while, watching the other man sitting in his chair, one leg resting on the other knee, the amasec suspended in the glass at his mouth. Not moving.

"Sure," he said eventually. "Why not?"

END OF PART ONE


End file.
